I Know You
by Gorgoninator
Summary: Peggy and Jack work the nightshift together, but their dynamic has changed ever since what happened in Russia.


Peggy set the phone back on it's receiver and shut her eyes for a moment. They stung a bit, dry from all the late nights and earlier mornings. Going to Russia hadn't helped. That was the thing about the SSR—and the Army for that matter. The things that fueled her spirit often had the opposite effect on her body. Fitness could only do so much, and those who didn't leave her line of work by injury tended to get worn down. Threadbare might be the best word. Like when one day you're looking at an old jacket and remembering how it used to match those red socks you threw out a couple years ago. Only now the color that would best describe it is pink with white patches. Not that there's anything wrong with pink with white patches, just that it's surprising. You can't seem to remember when it stopped being the vibrant, bloody color of its past.

"It's a slow night," she noted, rubbing her eyes to make them burn just a little bit more. She paused for a moment, waiting for Thompson to respond and break the monotony. A moment passed. Two moments. She felt like sighing. "What if nothing happens at all, and we're just sitting here for six more hours?" She leaned back in her chair, staring up at the ceiling and letting her fingers drum on her thigh. Absent drumming moved to rhythmic, which turned agitated as she began to suspect that he was ignoring her on purpose. "Thompson," she chided, turning her chair around to face his desk, "You do realize that—" She cut her sentence short as she got a better look at the man. He was situated precariously in his chair, one arm at his side and the other in his lap, head lolling towards his shoulder. A fountain pen had settled near his sternum, threatening to roll off with each rise and fall of his chest. The way his mouth hung open slightly suggested that it might have held that same pen moments before.

Jack Thompson, asleep on the job. What a scandal. Peggy deliberated for a moment on whether to wake him up or let him sleep. No doubt he was tired; she was too. He'd been working ceaselessly since their return, as evidenced by the meticulous agglomeration of papers scattering his desk. Her work at the SSR may not be as hectic as his, but once you took her after hours obligations into account it wasn't a stretch to say that Dooley had assigned two of his most overworked employees to stay up tonight. They both deserved a good night's sleep.

If there was a call, she decided, she would wake him up then.

The question now was how to pass the time without Thompson's wisecracks to keep her awake. The dog shift was proving to be incredibly dull, and her most important work at the moment could only be completed outside of the office. Perhaps some coffee would help. Of course, she would have to go pick up the coffee, which would mean leaving Jack here alone. That would be fine, if he weren't comatose half way across the office.

Clack

Peggy's arm reached for her sidearm before she'd had time to process the small noise. With Jack asleep, and her the only other one in the office, where had it come from? She turned, arms held in front of her and finger poised to shoot, but there was nothing there. Cautiously, she stood and surveyed the room, twitching as Thompson shifted restlessly in his sleep. Her heartbeat pulsed in her ears as all fatigue fled her body, and she began to move.

She passed a desk, turning on a dime, ready to pull the trigger should someone be there. The room was completely silent, the desks bare. When she made it to Jack's desk she kept her .45 low but turned nonetheless, eyes falling on—oh goodness—a fountain pen. She glanced at Thompson's chest, which was decidedly pen-less, and let out a breath of relief.

Relief gave way to humiliation, and her cheeks began to warm as she realized just how much she had overreacted. She cursed under her breath, prompting Agent Thompson to stir and open his eyes. Peggy lowered her gun.

"Carter?" One of his eyebrows climbed it's way up his face. He likely would have cocked his head if it weren't already thrust against the edge of his chair. "Why are you standing in front of me with your gun drawn?" He sat forward a bit, product heavy hair ever so slightly disheveled in the back.

"You shouldn't fall asleep on the job, Thompson," she quipped, horrified at the idea of him finding out she had snuck her way over here to shoot his favorite pen. "Someone might shoot you." She could hear Thompson shuffling in his seat as she placed her weapon on safe and back at her side.

"That's not funny, Peg."

Peggy scoffed, looking back up at Thompson, but caught her tongue when he refused to meet her eye, staring pointedly at the floor instead. The longer she studied him, the more he seemed to draw in on himself, and then it clicked.

"Oh." Her voice came out in an undertone. This was a landmine she hadn't ever intended to set off. "Oh, Jack. I didn't mean—"

"I'll get us some coffee." His voice was uncharacteristically quiet as he spoke.

"What?"

"Can't be falling asleep like this." He turned his head to face hers, but he wasn't quite meeting her eyes. His elbows were on his knees, and his eyes were fixed on something above her left shoulder. She had a sudden urge to look behind her, to figure out what it was he was focusing on. "I should get us some coffee." The air was stagnant for a moment before he shifted in his seat, preparing to stand.

"It's strange, isn't it," Peggy interrupted his movement, voice dipping up at the end like a question. They both knew he wasn't actually supposed to answer. "Coffee, I mean. Even here in the States it was being rationed." Thompson was looking down again, unsure where her story was going or how to respond. "Of course I've always preferred tea, but that doesn't mean I didn't spend four years drinking Roosevelt coffee like the rest of you. It's so strong now." She walked forward and leaned her hip on his desk; it was almost casual. "I have to make myself drink it anymore, which is strange, because whenever I got some in my C-rations it was like Christmas come early."

"You know English, I've never actually seen you drink tea." He looked up, smiling, but still managed to seem despondent; still ready to leave his chair at a moment's notice. It didn't escape her that he was ignoring the part of her story that mattered. "I'm starting to think this British thing is just an act." He was standing up, grabbing his coat, draping it elegantly over his elbow. He was adopting the rakish posture he so often owned, trying to exude his usual confidence.

"That's the great thing about us English folk." She stepped forward and placed her hand on his arm, urging him to sit back down. She leaned with him to maintain the contact as he softened and obliged. It was clear she needed to switch tactics, he was getting skittish and it wouldn't do to have him running off. "We're always prepared." She released his arm and smoothed her skirt, walking over to her own desk and retrieving her handbag. She could feel his eyes on her as she fished through it, curious. After an almost embarrassing length of time, she found two small packets and pulled them out.

"Whatcha got there Carter?" He leaned his elbows forward on his desk, trying to get a better look.

"Tea bags," she hummed.

"Tea bags," he repeated, incredulous, as if he didn't believe her. "You carry tea bags in your purse." He shook his head, but Peggy could tell he was grateful for the distraction. "What the hell else do you keep in there?

"We can discuss that," she offered, walking into the adjacent room to heat up some water and raising her voice to compensate, "over tea."

"I've never made tea before." His voice was a bit stronger now. It was easier for him to collect himself when she wasn't in the room. Or maybe it was him compensating for the distance. Peggy let some water run into the kettle. "How long does it take?"

"Five or ten minutes for the water to boil," she shouted back, "and then however long you want to steep it for."

"How long do you steep yours for?" His voice sounded a bit closer. He wasn't at his desk anymore.

"I'll let it sit for about five minutes." She filled the kettle completely before shutting the tap off. She could hear Thompson doing… something, outside the door.

"Hey, why do you carry so much lipstick with you?"

"Are you going through my bag, Thompson?" She scoffed back, turning to put the kettle on the range. She waited a second but he didn't answer. "You know it's rude to rifle through a lady's belongings."

"Lady?" She could almost see his expression through the wall, challenging her. "No lady I know packs this kind of heat."

"Well Agent Thompson, that might have been true before-"

"You've got all sorts of stuff in here. Lipstick, sunglasses, hairpins, regular pens, and, I don't know what this is. What is this?" No attention span, like a child.

"I can't see what you're looking at Jack, you're going to have to be a bit more specific."

"It says 'Meds'," he added. Peggy closed her eyes, letting go of the kettle and sauntering over to lean in the doorway. "Hold on a minute, these are for bullet wounds." He had the box open and was squinting at it, the other contents of her bag were scattered across her desk. "There's four missing. English, how many people around you are getting shot?" Oh, this would be fun to explain.

"They don't use them for bullet wounds anymore, Jack." She gave him a mischievous smile. "The war's over."

"So what, you carry them around for fun?" He held the box up in one hand, urging her to answer.

"The nurse corps took a lot of women down range." She picked some dirt out from under her nail, doing her best to act nonchalant. "They ended up coming up with some creative solutions for their problems."

"For bullet wounds."

"For their moon time." She whispered conspiratorially, as if she was letting him in on some big secret.

"Moon time?" The poor man looked more confused than he had at the start of the conversation.

"You know. The crimson tide? The visit from mother nature? When we're riding the cotton pony?" He gave her a blank look, continuing to hold the box out. "When we're menstruating."

The last word had hardly escaped her lips before he'd dropped the box and taken a step back, horrified. If he'd had a rifle, she suspected his first instinct would have been to point it at the package.

"They're very good for plugging up bloody holes." The impish smile remained fixed on her face, and Thompson looked for a moment as if he might just run away. He brought one arm up to rub the nape of his neck, and there was a gap between his other arm and his side. It was as if he'd forgotten where he usually placed it.

"Jesus, Carter." He searched for more words, but decided to simply sit in her chair and let out a theatrical groan. Peggy walked over, scooping up the box and replacing it in her bag before leaning on the edge of her desk.

"Good thing you're sitting down. You look as if you might faint." She began collecting her belongings off her desk, taking a tad bit longer than she needed to. After a minute or two of what she thought was amiable silence, Thompson cleared his throat. Peggy looked up to find him staring at her with a surprising intensity. She let out a nervous laugh at the sudden shift in tone. "Is something on your mind Jack?"

"Why haven't you told anyone?" He studied her face, pleading for an answer but already unsure he would believe it.

"Because it doesn't matter."

"It does matter," he ordered. "It's always mattered."

"It wouldn't change who you are Jack." She snapped back, harsher than she intended.

"It already has, Peggy." He was raising his voice now, incredulous. She could hear the steam from the tea seething in the other room and noted that the range was hotter than she'd remembered. Another minute and it would be ready.

He stood up.

"I can feel it everyday." He reached forward and grabbed both of her arms above the elbow.

"I didn't know you before the war Jack." She articulated her words carefully, wondering if they were the right ones; If there even were right ones. "It doesn't change anything to me. You're the same man I've always known."

"Then why wouldn't you tell Dooley?" His voice was raised, tinted with a slight mania. "I'm nothing to you Carter." She could hear the low, faint whistle of the kettle drift into the room. "I'm worse than nothing-I'm bitter, I'm spiteful, I'm in your way. I make you get lunch orders. I make comments about you that I know aren't true just to antagonize you. I did everything in my damn power to keep you out of Russia." His fingers dug into her arms as he lowered his voice to a plea. "If nothing was different, you'd want me gone."

"None of that has stopped me." She reached her arms up and clasped onto his forearms, leveling him with her gaze. "I am not in the business of tearing other people down, Jack-Even if I was, it wouldn't stop you, either. You're stronger than that."

"You don't know that." His voice caught in his throat, breaking. The whistling from the kettle had levelled into a solid whine.

"I do know that." She grasped his arms tighter, he loosened his own grip in response, but didn't let go. "Everything I've seen you do Jack-every time I've seen you slip up-do you know what you've done?" She barely gave him time to shake his head before continuing. "You've recovered. You've picked yourself up and dusted yourself off and kept moving, even when you were scared half to death." He released his grip, but left his hands hovering near her shoulders, ready to latch back on. "And I suspect," she tilted her head, looking for confirmation of her next words, "that you've been doing that for years. Trying to make up for the past, to prove to that it's not who you are." His deep breath and the look in his eyes was all the confirmation it took.

She let go of his arms, pulling him into a loose hug instead. She moved her hand gently on his back, comforting him as he returned the embrace.

"But nobody else knew, Jack. You didn't need to convince anyone. It was important to you." She whispered. "That's how I know." She swayed slightly, letting the steady piping of steam and the hum of the AC waft over them until Thompson began to relax. Eventually he let go and instead moved to give her the most genuine look that had ever graced his features. When he opened his mouth to speak she half expected him to say something profound, and half expected him to simply close his mouth again without a word.

"I think the tea's ready," he said instead, smiling gently. Peggy smiled back.

"I think you're right."


End file.
